


Penumbrius

by Grand_Phoenix



Category: Kingdom Hearts, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Heart of Azeroth Player Character, Ava goes on a world tour, Canon Era, No Romance, Papa Wolf Velen, an attempt at a Morally Grey Alliance, and development of Light and Void dichotomy, running gags involving everyone wanting to know and see what Ava looks like under her mask
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 05:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18805063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grand_Phoenix/pseuds/Grand_Phoenix
Summary: Ava awakens in Azeroth, a world embroiled in darkness and war between its two superpowers. Alone and with no memory as to how she got here, Ava seeks to find a way to return to Daybreak Town. But the Alliance expects more from her than just granting her sanctuary; the Horde, led by Warchief Sylvanas Windrunner, will not stop until the Alliance is crushed beneath their heel and Azeroth is theirs. And so a deal is struck: in exchange for seeking the means of going back home, Ava must wield her keyblade in the fight against their sworn enemy.[BfA era, set against the backdrop of the Blood War. Takes place post-Battle of Dazar'alor, goes into Rise of Azshara and 8.3]





	Penumbrius

**Author's Note:**

> Admittedly self-indulgent fluff, I had entertained the idea of doing a longer _Kingdom Hearts_ fanfic shortly after I wrote _for want of many a nail_ , and although I'm tangentially aware of the Kudzu Plot the series is infamous for I still wanted to tackle it in a way that's easy for me: by crossing it over with _World of Warcraft_.
> 
> The main inspiration came from KH3's epilogue scene...although this doesn't necessarily mean this story takes place around that timeframe nor acknowledges it (seeing as it's a hook into the next saga). Ava's really the only person among the Foretellers that I have interest in, whereas the others are pretty much 'there' for the moment, and that was when the inkling for _Penumbrius_. The premise being: "Throw someone from KH into WoW and see what happens when she has to work with people that not only use the Light but Darkness".
> 
> I also want to use this story as a way to see how I can develop and manage an Alliance that takes advantage of its more morally grey aspects, something that I feel isn't shown enough - perhaps because Blizzard may be playing it too safe with them compared to how they were back in the RTS games, hence it being one of the common narrative criticisms people have regarding the Alliance outside it being an alleged "Human Empire under God-King Anduin" (and the Horde under Sylvanas is another matter entirely, although in a setting which _the developers themselves_ have stated to be a world in which MORALLY GREY ACTIONS ARE TAKEN BY SOME CHARACTERS (and not damn near everyone, as the community loves to bleat and beat its chest over) I, personally, do not see Sylvanas and her Horde as evil as much as I don't see the Alliance under Anduin to be truly good).
> 
> On a second note: This doesn't take into account the "Kairi is Ava" and "Ava is Subject X" theories, nor does it adhere to the headcanons I've seen floating around on Tumblr that depict Ava as a redhead (which I think might have something to do with the first theory), so she's going to go featureless for the entire story.

The tide was going to come in soon. Velen arched a long, feathery, white brow when he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, the waves washing his hoofprints away, leaving behind a layer of sediment and a stray hermit crab that scrambled farther up the shore as if in a panic. He raised his head as he watched it go, legs sketching furious lines in the sand.

_Now where could you be going, I wonder? I reckon it must be very important,_ he thought, and nodded. Yes, that must be it.

_Indeed, it must be,_ he thought again; but it was his voice and it wasn’t. It was somber, bleak, and made him grimace.  _There’s nothing good to be had in feasting off fresh blood._

“Prophet,” said Santus from behind him, “the sermon will begin soon. If we linger any longer, the King will send for us.”

“In a few minutes, Santus,” Velen told her, stopping himself short of correcting her. He was not Prophet anymore—he did not want to be, not after all that had happened with Rakeesh, and Kil’jaeden, and everything that happened on the Vindicaar and on Argus. Still, old habits were hard to break, and no one among the Light’s Chosen, save for Divinus, could bring themselves to call him only by his name. Perhaps they would do so, given time. Perhaps they may not.

He faced the sea. It was a beautiful day outside, blue skies and not a cloud to be seen, and it showed on the surface far and away where it was not so restless. Or so it seemed; it could be his age or it could be a trick of the sunlight, but he liked to think the water was calm and quiet and not given to the bloodshed that was surely being committed leagues and leagues away.

His lips dipped in a slight frown. The assault on Dazar’alor had been Pyrrhic: the Zandalari fleet was in shambles and the Warchief’s forces suffered heavy losses, but King Rastakhan was dead. He had refused to stand down, and Velen did not blame him. After all, what point was there in surrendering if peace was to be fought and won in senseless slaughter? Now the King had paid the price and his daughter ascended the throne, baying for Alliance blood and Lord Admiral Proudmoore’s head, and Velen did not blame her, either. Like it or not, the Zandalari would have no choice but to throw their lot in with their former enemies. The Horde, in possession of one of the world’s greatest navies, up against the likes of Kul Tiras and their tidesages recently cementing their status as a major player within the Alliance. They would come back, once they recovered.

And the Alliance….

Velen closed his eyes and breathed deep through his nose. He held it in in his lungs before expelling it in a soft stream and opened his eyes, blinking away the lingering sunspots. For all the talk and bravado passing in the streets that the war would be in their favor within a matter of weeks, the Alliance had endured just as much loss as the Horde. On the one hand, Jaina was wounded from her fight, though she was none the worse for wear and eventually healed enough to be discharged and return to her duties in Boralus. Security, Fareeya was telling him one day, had increased tenfold once the fleet arrived, from Boralus itself to Brennadam in Stormsong Valley to even the Waycrest Manor in Drustvar (with a fresh contingent of lightforged soldiers and their Kul Tiran initiates sent by High Exarch Turalyon and Lady Lucille to continue cleansing the land of Gorak Tul’s taint), lined with Master Mathias Shaw’s 7th Legion scouts and King Genn’s Greyguard marksmen along the walls and amid the thrushes. If one were to look upon everything as an osprey would when flying above the sea, they would not be faulted for believing that the Alliance came out of the assault with barely a scratch.

On the other hand, they could not see the cracks that were forming underneath the surface. Tyrande and the Wardens had spurned Anduin’s request to focus on the attack on Dazar’alor and journeyed to Darkshore, not only to push the Horde out but to call upon Elune’s favor and perform the Night Warrior ritual. It was a dangerous task to put oneself under, for those who had attempted in the past had perished, their bodies torn apart by magic far greater than they could handle even in the prime of their ancestral glory thousands of years of ago. Yet Tyrande had succeeded. She had become one with Elune, became the incarnation of all the grief and terror and fury and vengeance the night elves embodied with the fall of Teldrassil and the knife’s edge their people suddenly dangled upon, and there she remained today. Together, Velen recalled, with Genn’s daughter Tess, and Lorna Crowley, and even Ivar Bloodfang and his pack, assisting the Army of the Black Moon hunker down in the no man’s land that was currently entrenching Bashal’Aran. Even Malfurion—quiet, mild-mannered Malfurion—turned his back on the Eastern Kingdoms and joined his wife in the battle, and tales of the brutality he exacted on the Horde passed through the camps among the embassy grounds with a bloodthirsty relish that settled coldly in Velen’s bones. Enough was enough.

Not only that, but the High Tinker was incapacitated. Dead, some would say, for he was encased in a pod that no magic holy or unholy could pry him from. Looking at it prior reminded Velen of the caches he and the draenei had secreted themselves in aboard the Exodar during their ill-fated flight across the Great Dark Beyond all those years ago, but on a level he had never would have imagined to be possible among the Alliance or the Horde; not even the goblins were this sophisticated and intricate in their brightest moments. The gnomes were without their leader and spread too thin among the rest of the 7th Legion planted all over Zandalar, most of the night elves were in Darkshore, the lightforged were clashing with Silvermoon’s blood knights that had once been fighting together side by side on Argus, druids and shaman part of the Cenarion Circle and the Earthen Ring pitted against one another--

Velen made a low, frustrated noise in the back of his throat. Just thinking about everything and the scope of all that encompassed everyone embroiled in this war was beginning to give him a headache. He dare not even think of the obvious implications of mass producing weapons of destruction from harvesting the azerite veins that were cropping up across the globe. The King insisted, and rather unconvincingly no matter how hard he tried, that it was better for the azerite to be in the hands of the Alliance that could be utilized for the good of Azeroth rather than it be in the hands of the Horde. It was bad enough they had the knowledge and material to recreate Iron Horde technology via the Mag’har; Anduin told him, in a haunting, grave tone, to just imagine how much more damage Sylvanas could cause by being in possession of azerite. What could be next? The Exodar? Nordrassil? Ironforge? Research had shown azerite was strong enough to knock the wind out of somebody when exploded—and at a small portion at that. If a tree blessed by the dragonflights could be destroyed, then even a mountainous fortress like the dwarven capital could fall, crumple upon itself and force the dwarves up to the surface to be picked off.

No, Anduin said. For the sake of the Alliance and for Alliance that they outrace Sylvanas and amass as much azerite as they could. They would be made into weapons, yes, he admitted reluctantly, but if it meant ending the war and ensuring peace among both factions then, yes, he concluded more firmly, then so would they be made and so would they be used.

Peace had to be afforded.

Somehow.

Neither words nor chains would work on a woman like Sylvanas Windrunner. Not a chance in hell.

_And then what? What will happen afterwards?_

_What will happen to the Void?_

Velen refrained from stroking his beard, a habit that always manifested itself when he was too deep in thought. There were reports of an adventurer,  a soldier of war  chosen by Magni to wield the Heart of Azeroth, coming under attack by Faceless minions, and these instances saw a rise in frequency the longer the war went on.  It was no secret, at least among the military (and surely the Horde knew as well), that the Old Gods were stirring once more,  their influence reaching further than ever before. The eradication of the corruption seeping from the Heart of Darkness in the swamps of Nazmir by Horde forces did not seem to quell them in the slightest.

He did not so much as hear the word ‘G’huun’ throughout those early days.  In fact, he wasn’t even aware that there had been an active Old God (or something equivalent to it) in Zandalar until  the King had sat down with him one evening and relayed the news that had come out of Shaw’s intel that day.

That was one problem that was taken care of, at least. The plans to drive a wedge between the Zandalari and the Horde hadn’t been finalized yet, but one less Old God in the world now meant one less headache to deal with.

But there was one other name that was cropping up amid all the mess that was the aftermath of Dazar’alor’s assault,  one other that was putting Anduin and the tidesages on edge and had even Velen’s nerves twisting in  frayed, accordion knots; and that name was N’Zoth.

“It never ends, does it?” Velen said aloud.

“Sir?” Santus said, perking up.

“Everything,” he continued. He did not tear his eyes away from the sea. “When you think you have one problem solved, another comes up. There’s no end in sight.” _And if it keeps going at this rate, there may never will._

“Do not lose hope! If we are smart, then the war will end very soon and justice shall be dispensed. The Warchief and her lackeys will never see the light of day again so long as we prevail. When that’s done, we can finally focus on healing our world of all the ills they’ve wrought.”

“Ours, too,” Velen added, somberly.

“Yes,” Santus agreed, after a moment. “Yes,” she said again. “But ours was not to the same extent the Horde went to. We fight so that war on this scale will never happen again. The Horde fights because it is in their nature; there has not been a single Warchief that can onto the leash long enough to restrain them. If they cannot do it, then the Alliance must. It’s always been that way, sir. We have to be the better person.”

V elen hummed. This was true: the Horde was proactive, the Alliance reactive. The Horde was selfish, the Alliance selfless.  A typical Alliance soldier could count on both hands the number of atrocities the Horde committed, as well as the number of cities that had been destroyed by them. Meanwhile, on their free hand, they would continuously count the fall of Camp Taurajo as the one wrong—the only wrong—the Alliance could be said to have done. Yet still Velen would have disagreed to them, pointing out that, though the Alliance did not bomb cities into arcane dust and raise citizens into undeath, their hands were just as bloody by cutting down fleeing Horde sailors, strong-arming the native population into constructing aerial outposts,  losing the most powerful airship in the military due to the King of Gilneas ignored orders and engaged pursuit on a Horde vessel,  and, very obviously, everything that involved azerite and the war. Claiming to be the lawful good ‘police’ of Azeroth did not mean they were completely blameless nor was every little action taken done to ensure there would be made in the pursuit of peace even though the intention at the start was because it was right.

Honor didn’t always mean a fair chance in a fight.

Honor didn’t always mean sparing one’s life.

H onor, it seemed to Velen, as he breathed in the salt air, was just a means of painting one’s actions in whatever color that would make them look nice and pretty for all to gush over, dab at their eyes over how noble they were, and press their hats over their hearts as the trumpets sounded the souls of the brave and dearly departed off into the Light.

He considered telling Santus as such.

Instead he said, “We do what we must if we think it so, Santus. There is no ‘we have to be’.  In fact, I will go so far as to say that there is no ‘we must be’. We only ‘need to’ because that is what we want to do. We say something is right or something is wrong if we declare it to be one or the other.”

Santus nodded. “Well, I believe that what we are doing is right because I do not think those in the Horde do not have it within themselves to right their wrongs alone. If there is any peace to be made, sir, it must be from our hand.”

“Maybe,” he conceded, “but I believe we not have that moral authority to insist that the matter of the war must be resolved by us. The Horde must decide among themselves what is right and what is wrong, and when they arrive at their conclusion they must decide where to go from there and if that is right or wrong, and so on and so forth.”

“They do not seem to be do a very good job at it.”

“Regardless, it is not our place. Not unless it comes to the point where it becomes an absolute necessity...and by the King’s order, no less.”

“If it should come to that, sir, then I hope the King will make the right decision. And soon.”

_Yes,_ Velen thought,  _and soon._ Except the more time Anduin waited and focused solely on Zandalar, the further away Tyrande and Malfurion would be pushed to remain in Kalimdor. The gnomes would become more desperate to save Mekkatorque and, perhaps in a fit on impatience, strike out on their own to plunder the depths of the abandoned junk heap in Tiragarde’s wilds where it was said the gnomes of Kul Tiras vanished off the face of the earth. Everyone, even their most recently acquired allies, would grow tired and venture elsewhere, either under Genn’s command, Jaina’s, or even Shaw’s.

Time did not care if you were the most experienced warrior on the front lines or the most humble priest whose only training was in healing the sick and the injured in a church. Time did not care if you were a young, baby-faced king stepping into shoes much too big for him.

Nor a n old man who had once shunned the fearsome shadows.

“Whatever decision the King makes, Santus, it will be not only for the Alliance’s best interest but in Azeroth’s as well,” said Velen. “He has many advisors to turn to. They, myself included, will help him.”

“Hmm. I hope so.”

They walked further along the shore, moving up as the turf slowly gathered strength and speed. Gulls cried lustily, heard but unseen. Far away, back where they come from, the  harbor’s bell tolled the arriva l  of a ship  coming to dock.

“It’s almost time for sermons, Prophet. We should leave now.”

“In a moment, Santus. I am in no rush.”

“You certainly aren’t!” Santus exclaimed. Then, a little more softly, she asked, “You’re troubled. What is on your mind?”

“Ah, Santus, there is not much else I can tell you that you and the rest of the Light’s Chosen don’t already know.”

“I will still hear it nonetheless, sir, and so will they.”

“I appreciate that, Santus.”

“So what is it? Did you have a vision?”

“No,” he said firmly. “No, I did not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“I had a vision last week, sir,” Santus said. “I dreamed that I was standing watch on one of the towers, and when I looked up I saw a light fly across the sky, like a shooting star. I do not know if it landed or if it kept going, but it took my breath away and woke me up before I could turn my head fast enough to see in which direction it went.”

“Are you sure it was a vision and not a memory?” Velen asked.

“Well,” Santus said, and paused. “I’m not sure,” she added, after a moment. “I like to think it is, or must be, because I asked the others if they had had any peculiar dreams.”

“And?”

“And. Well. Not all the dreams were the same, but they did share some particular details.”

“What might those be?”

“There was light—the Light, sir, and it was indeed a star in the sky. Jost and Aeqinus said it was twilight in their dream and the first star they saw in the sky. Heradus claimed it was breaking dawn in his and thus the last star in the sky. Virtus said it was right next to the Betrayer’s star in the sky at the stroke of midnight, even going so far as to say it was brightest of them all! Oh, but then we asked Divinius what was in her dream, and she said that there not a single star in the sky—not even the Betrayer’s! And we told her, sir, that the stars are still there even when the sky is full dark, it could’ve been just one of those dreams where there were a lot of clouds, or smoke, or even the light from all manner of vehicles and devices and magic, that obscured the stars from view. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I know what I saw: no stars in the heavens, whatsoever. Not even the moons.’”

V elen nodded. “Interesting.”

“Oh, but that’s not all, Prophet. Even though Divinius swore up and down and to the Light that she didn’t see the Light or a light in particular, she said she had the feeling that something was watching her despite the lack of illumination in her surroundings. Like...like eyes. And when she had said that, the others said that they had the same feeling as well.”

Velen pursed his lips together in a line. His brow furrowed in thought. “Did you?”

“Not in the beginning. Not until Divinius mentioned it. That’s when I tried to remember everything. And...I think I did. Have that feeling of somebody—something—having its eyes on me. But it didn’t seem like a bad feeling to me, nor did it seem like a good feeling. It was just...there, so to say. I don’t think it was a bad thing, Prophet, for I had never left the parapets. My eyes were on the city and the shoreline of the harbor. The sea was calm. The sky, clear. It must have been morning, or maybe evening, I cannot say. But I could see the sun on the waves and knew them to be peaceful before the star came. It’s a strange dream, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it does sound strange. But not all dreams have to make sense.”

“That is true. But I like to think it’s a sign—that things will turn around and we can finally set things right, as they should be.”

“I hope so, too.”

T hey kept walking.

“You don’t think so,” Santus said.

“Hmm?”

“You don’t think it’s a vision.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It could be anything.”

“But you don’t think it is.”

Velen worried at his lower lip. Then he said, “No. I do not think  it is. I did not dream of it.”

“At all? Not even as a sign while awake?”

“No. Nothing whatsoever.” Velen tipped a pebble with the point of his hoof, sending it scattering away into the surf. He could feel Santus’s eyes on the back of his head. He wondered if this was how she felt in her dream, being watched, perhaps just as aware as he is now.

“Oh,” said Santus, and for a few minutes thereafter Velen thought she would not speak anymore of the matter and continue their walk for a little while longer.

“Prophet,” she began. “I meant what I said earlier. If there is ever anything you want to talk about, know that I and the Light’s Chosen are here for you to convene with. We will do the best we can to help.”

“Thank you, Santus, I will remember that. But be rest assured; I am fine. It’s just the war. That’s all.” He sent another little rock skidding across the sand. Santus said nothing.

They continued their trek across the beach.  The tide picked up with speed, lapping at their hooves with hungry, salty tongues. A pelican swooped down from the west and descended upon the  sea, beak open for the fish that awaited therein, and Velen watched it rise back up out of the corner of his eye.

“It is almost time for the sermon, Prophet,” Santus reminded him again. “It is a quarter to eight.”

“Of course, Santus. I think I have spent enough time out here. Let us be on our way--” He stopped.

“Prophet?” Santus said, and he did not respond. “Prophet! Get behind me!” She unhooked the argunite mace from her belt, brought up her shield, and hastened forward.

He raised his arm, blocking her way. “ Wait,” he murmured. “Look.”

They looked.  Velen looked, blinking once, twice, and then again. His mind reeled, his stomach lurched. His heart skipped.

Several meters out, in the middle of the surf, was a body.

“By the naaru!” Santus breathed. “Is that…?”

“A child,” Velen said, and brushed off the hand that he did not realize until now was on his shoulder. He took up a jog, Santus behind him.

T he first thing he noticed as he came to a stop was the sound the ground made. It was not the soft crunch sand made when trod upon but a hard, hollow thunk. He glanced upon the body just as the surf pulled out, breath catching.

The ground was pure glass. The reflection of sunlight on the water and what appeared to be solid, crystalline gold seared red sunspots across his vision.

_What in the world…._

“Prophet--”

“Watch my back,” Velen told Santus, and got down on his knees, not caring if his robes got soaked through. The body was definitely not that of a child—more of a young adult, or someone on the cusp of it, and female; she was face down, and her hands, small with slender fingers, were peeking out of the sleeves of a pink and beige robe.

Velen stared at her left hand, the one closest to him, swallowing around the lump rising in his throat. Slowly, gingerly, he reached down and pulled back the corner of the sleeve.

He hissed under his breath. A thick, yellow line, almost white, raced up her arm from the back of her knuckles as a tapered point, and quickly fading away. He dropped the cloth and carefully turned her onto her back. The upper half of her head was covered by a mask  of silver plate shaped  and detailed like a  fox, or maybe a coyote, ears poking through the holes in her hood. Her cheeks were round, not quite yet shed of their baby fat, but the talon-like tips were darkening,  retreating away from him even as he made to move the flap out of her face , and disappeared, leaving her skin unblemished.

Velen grimaced.  _Lightforged scars._ A cold, sudden shiver crawled down his spine. His head felt  light, like  a ship taking on too much water and ready to capsize at any given moment. It brought to mind a memory, ghostly but with harsh clarity as though it was happening right in front of him, of a naaru, radiant in her splendor, being utterly annihilated by a demon oozing with darkness and fel magic. The antithesis of all that was good and warm and perfect, the very sins she had tried to erase from him mind, body, and soul; and Velen blinked he could every piece of her scattered across the floor like broken glass, their luster dimming.

H e pushed the memory away, sucked in a breath, and slowly, shakily, let it out in a whistle. He placed two fingers against the side of her neck,  then turned her hand over in his own and touched her wrist.

“Alive,” he murmured. “Thank goodness.”

“Prophet, look,” Santus said. She came up to him by his side and gestured at a spot to his left.

He looked. Two feet from where the girl lay was what at first he thought was a battle-axe  with a single bladed head, the variation of the two-bladed kind the orcs of the Horde were fond of using.  But that was where the similarities ended.  It had a blade, but it was not made of steel but rather had the appearance of being carved out of marble and drawn with the image of ocean waves  capped with a stylized red heart on the end. The hilt was just as elaborate with the waves curling around on both sides of the pommel in a diamond pattern; in the center was an engraving of the canine very similar to her mask.

“What a peculiar design,” she added. Then, in a softer tone, “Poor thing. To have flown this far…Sir, what are your orders?”

“Go find the King. Let him know I cannot attend the sermon.”

“Sir! I can’t let you go alone. What if the Horde--”

“I do not think the Horde did this, Santus.” His mind went back to the scars, scars he was sure Santus did not see, and pushed the unbidden memory aboard the Vindicaar aside.

“This is the closest port between Boralus and Tol Barad, sir. There are still Horde ships on Alliance waters. Something brought her here.”

“There are naga, as well. But we will find out soon enough,” Velen said, cradling the girl into his arms. “She requires healing. I will take her to the Wollerton Stead and see that she is not alone when she awakens. The King will have questions, so please send him to me when he is ready.” Velen regarded the battle-axe and squinted at the wink of bright sunlight that caught on the blade’s heart right as the surf retreated from the shore.

_Light Almighty!_ He growled, blinking now and then at the cat’s-eye glare of the sunspot floating in his vision. _Annoying._ He gathered himself into a crouch, and, making sure the girl was secured in his grip one last time, reached out and grabbed the battle-axe at the base of the diamond hilt.

T he glass cracked, splintered beneath his hooves, and shattered in a fountain of Light.

“By all that is holy…!” Santus exclaimed, taking a step back. Her eyes were wide, mouth agape.

Velen stared at the axe, his expression the same but much more subdued. The Light did not so much evaporate on its own than disappear into the weapon, where it coalesced around it and around his hand with a muted glow.  There was warmth, life, a pleasant updraft of complete and utter oneness  flowing up his arm and spreading throughout his body until it seemed as though his soul would free itself from him and fly away.  Then it subsided, dimming gradually, and then was gone, though the heat still lingered amid the cool breeze blowing in.

“Prophet Velen,” Santus began. “That weapon….”

“Aye,” he said. “It has been blessed. There is great strength in this young one. All the more reason to give her the help she needs...and with all due haste. Isn’t that right, soldier?” He looked past Santus, over her shoulder. She turned around, mace and shield lowered but held aloft.

A human woman dressed in blue and gold leather stepped forward from the shade of the wall where she was hiding.  Long knives were clipped to a tightly wrapped belt on her waist, the band of a pistol snugged in the crook of an underarm. The top of her hood resembled the head of a gryphon, obscuring most of her face in shadow. She approached them, footsteps barely making a sound on the sand.

“7th Legion,” Santus said. “How long have you been--”

“Watching? Kinda hard to ignore a blinding flash of light, ya know,” said the scout. Santus sniffed at her, to which she ignored. “I’ll tell the King, Prophet,” she told him. “You and Exarch Santus can go on ahead. Make sure there’s a nice, quiet spot for our friend.”

“Thank you very much,” said Velen. “The King and I will figure out where to go from here.”

S he nodded. “Yes, sir.” She gave him a sharp salute and took a long stride backwards, almost as if falling into the comfort of the shadows. There was a soft hiss of magic,  cold and sharp like a winter gust, and they did not see her anymore.

“She saw it all,” Santus groused. “Light above, I’ll bet you she knew someone was going to come out here at this hour and wanted to wait and see what they’d do.”

“The 7th Legion has always been everywhere,” Velen said. “She was bound to have noticed sooner or later.”

“Perhaps. Or she could have stayed like this, untouched, and died.” Santus appraised the girl in his arms with pity. There was also a hint of something else lurking behind her eyes, troubled yet curious all the same. Velen recognized it for what it was, for he had seen it on many a face of his fellow draenei young and old: she was looking upon something that was too good to be true, that she did not expect it to happen just yet or maybe not at all, and it finally did. She was still trying to come to digest what she was seeing and how she should express it. It was a kind of a childish innocence full of expectant hope that shaved years off your old age, only held in check by centuries of rigid, martial training and temperance.

He glanced down at the girl and felt a small pang in his chest. Her clothes made her smaller than she appeared. It should not have surprised him that he mistook her for a child, but he did.  _She’s so young,_ he surmised.  _Even younger than the King…._

_Indeed,_ another voice that sounded just like his own whispered.  _How far have you flown?_

“We should go, Prophet,” said Santus. “The sooner we get her to Wollerton Stead, the sooner Virtos and I can assess the extent of any injuries she might have sustained.”

_And what comes thereafter?_ Velen wanted to ask, and his mind drifted to the battle-axe.

He stopped himself. “Aye.” Securing both weapon in hand and the girl in his arm, he gestured to Santus back the way they had come. She went ahead of him and he followed.


End file.
